The black jeans and t-shirt contrast dramatically with the pale hair and make his legs look a mile long. He turns immediately in one fluid movement and extends his hand.
"Lucy's mother," he says, his voice soft and resonant, with a slow sinful smile that could charm the panties off a Pentecostal church lady. Elegant posture, like Lucy. Nobody is born with such compelling grace. But, I thought she had sworn off ballet dancers more than two years ago. Self-important, vain creatures she told me, and mostly gay, except for the macho, hard-drinking Russians and the Cubans with at least one wife and multiple kiddies waiting in the wings.
His beauty makes me catch my breath: the face of an angel. Not a good thing for a young woman to have to deal with; never worked out well for me when I was fresh and pretty like Lucy. Men that handsome grow too accustomed to being pursued. But, it's not fair to judge a book by its cover.
"Hi," I say and take his hand. His skin is as soft as Lucy's, but his grip is firm, strong. "Lucy asked me to come in and say 'hi,'" I continue. Brilliant. I'm nothing if not articulate. "I was just about to stop working and go to bed." Working. Now that's a self-serving picture. Cruising the web, nursing my writer's block like I would a much loved child.
"This is Lasse, Mom," Lucy says.
"That's an unusual name," I volunteer.
"It's a nickname," he says, offering nothing more. Oh, so that is how you are going to play it? Close to the chest. I may not look impressive, legs, but you'll not get far with the young lady if I don't like you. She is a real mama's girl. His accent is subtle, definitely not American. Almost, but not quite, British public school. There is no such thing as unaccented English. He has to have learned it somewhere.
"Would you like some tea or coffee?," I ask.